Shooting Stars (22 page)

Eddie has nothing to say.

“Floyd is gone. Nobody has anything to say about him. Just rumors of him in Venezuela or Budapest. Something ain’t right. You know I think Hunter had him killed, right? And you know those phone calls on the community phone are tapped, right? Before he fired Monta, he made him change his ‘It’s Raining Men’ screen saver. Well, I’m glad he did that, but Monta should have the freedom to have half-naked men shooting across his computer screen when it’s idle. And I’m positive they were tracing our Internet use and e-mails before they blocked everything. Now, I’m cut off from the world for nine hours a day—”

“Pardon. Pardon,” Aida says as she stands right at my cube with her clipboard. “We are collecting money for a gift card for Jessica. It’s her last day.”

“Who the fuck is Jessica?” I say.

Aida points to a young girl. I thought she was someone’s daughter here for take-your-kid-to-work day. “She’s got a new job,” Aida says.

How did she get a new job? She couldn’t have been here more than a few months. Everyone except me uses this place as a stepping stone to better things. All my stepping stones sink.

“I don’t give money towards gifts. I’m on a fixed income,” I say.

“I hope you never need a gift for anything,” Aida says.

“I’ll tell you what, when I go apeshit because one too many people asked me to donate money to a gift for someone I don’t know or care about, you can organize the donations and get everyone to contribute to my bail.”

A shocked Aida walks away. She had to know I wasn’t going to give her money. I never do. I can’t pay my bills. I have student-loan people stalking me. And I’m gonna give five dollars for a gift card for some chick who’s leaving for greener pastures? Yeah, right.

I turn my attention back to Eddie and Dolores. “This shit right here is unlawful. We are free people who can’t be treated like this,” I continue as I hold up the memo.

“Is there a problem?” Hunter says as he appears right behind me. Eddie could’ve given me the heads-up that he was there during my rant . . . a wink or something? I wonder what Hunter heard.

“No, not at all. Going over some of the finer points of the great policies you’ve put into effect recently. Making sure my mentee is abreast of the situation,” I say.

“I’m glad you’re finally getting onboard. Would hate to have to throw you off the boat,” Hunter says.

“Finally? I’ve been onboard since the beginning. Of course, I didn’t agree with the testing at first, because I didn’t see it coming. But since then, I’ve been like the pied piper of STD. No need to throw me off the boat. I can’t swim.”

Hunter looks me up and down. I think I might’ve laid it on too thickly. “Well . . . either way, I’m glad. I came over here to grab you. Would you mind stepping into my office for a moment?”

“Me? Why?”

“I want to talk to you about something extremely important, and do it privately. No need to be nervous,” he says.

Oh shit. This is it for me. Nobody says “no need to be nervous” unless there’s something to be nervous about. And he came in like it was a mob hit, quiet and stealthy. An unexpected job. I find myself continually giving it up to him as I follow him back to his office. I also have thoughts of running out of the office. I would save myself the humiliation and take with me the satisfaction of firing me, but my legs aren’t moving in that direction. They keep following. I’m being led to my execution. I
won’t
go as far as saying I’m in a concentration camp, but it’s something along those lines. But I
will
say Hunter does have many personality traits of a Nazi.

He opens up the door to his office, and I walk in. Then, there’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” Hunter says.

It’s Chloe. “You needed me, sir?” she says.

Great. It’s a tandem job. My arch-nemesis and my boss offing me like a fucking soap opera. The only ones missing from this party are Alexis, Robbie, and my mom and dad. Then, we’d have the ultimate fuck-you double cross going on.

“I have a special task for both of you,” Hunter says.

Does he want us to fight to the death for the promotion? I’ll put this bitch in a sleeper hold with no remorse. She probably knows judo or some shit, but I’ll fuck her up. I have no problems with punching her in the face before he gives the sign to begin swinging.

He continues, “As you’ve seen, the company is undergoing a lot of changes. And your task is part of the company’s new mission statement. I need both of you to serve as the faces for our new promotional materials. Our marketing team has put together a great new campaign to be sent to our potential clients and posted in all of the trade magazines.”

“Really? That’s great,” I say, partially disappointed I didn’t get to punch her in the face today.

“Sir, pardon my asking, but why us?” she says.

“Well, I’ve been paying close attention to both of your work,” he says as he paces around his office. “And you two typify the working styles we would like to use for this promotion.”

“Nice. So when do we start?” I say. “Do you need to go over some lines with me? Or would you like me to go off the cuff? You know, I was the captain of my college’s improv troupe.” Another lie that I’ve gotten accustomed to saying during job interviews.

“Come in tomorrow ready to take some photos,” he says.

Chloe and I leave his office, but not before giving each other a competitive stare down. It’s like Wile E. Coyote looking right into the eyes of the Roadrunner. Two adversaries knowing they are neck and neck. I’m feeling really good about myself, so to let her know, I start humming under my breath as we walk back to our seats. “Every move you make. Every step you take. Every move you make. Every step you take, I’ll be watching you.” She hears me and shakes her head. Yeah, bitch. I’m on my A-game. I’m not staying late today either. While she’s here, I’m going to be getting my rest for the photo shoot tomorrow.

I
t’s been
about two weeks since our photo shoot. And I still know I killed it. I was little apprehensive before I did it, as I thought Hunter might’ve been using me to add some color to the promotional materials. And I’m okay with being a token, like I’ve always have, but only when it benefits me. When it doesn’t, that’s when I lash out. The photographer asked me not to give him too much. Then he pulled me to the side and said it was because Chloe looked like an amateur. Or, at least, that’s what his words insinuated. It felt like he didn’t want me to overshadow her, but that was my goal. Make her look like she didn’t belong next to me. I was like Tyson Beckford in that bitch, multiplied by a thousand Zoolanders. I kept hitting him with priceless looks. Blue steel! Blue steel! Blue steel! I practically beat him into submission with my brown eyes and luminous smile, which should’ve been destined for a Dentine commercial.

I’ve asked Hunter every day since the shoot when the pictures will be ready, and he keeps telling me, “You can’t build a house overnight using only a Bowie knife.” Must be one of his shit-kicker Southern sayings, because I have no idea what it means. I’ve now switched to asking every other day, because I sensed he was getting annoyed. But when I came in today, the e-mail was waiting for all of us about the special marketing meeting scheduled for today. The anticipation grew until the meeting reminder flashed on my computer screen. It’s time for my modeling debut.

Everyone gathers in the boardroom for the presentation. There’s an excitement in the air. Well, at least with me there is. Hunter is at the front of the room giving the presentation. I didn’t want to show up too early, so I missed the beginning. I’m the star. I need to make an entrance, but much like the chosen one, I arrive right on time.

“And now to unveil our new advertisements that will be in all of the print magazines and on a few select billboards across the world. This will be our calling card for billions of people,” Hunter says. He clicks the slide, and on the screen is a picture of Chloe doing work and looking rather busy, with the title “Organization and Stabilization” above it. He clicks again and there’s a picture of me with a strained look on my face, with a bunch of piled-up papers on my desk, titled “Mental Constipation.” The tag line reads, “Schuster, Thompkins, and Dykes, the cure for your mental constipation.”

I didn’t wear that at the photo shoot. Wait a minute . . . that’s just a picture of me at my desk. What happened to the rolls and rolls of film we took? I don’t even have my trademark bow tie on. This is bullshit. Why am I the mascot for the shitty employee?

He showed a few more slides, all with pictures of Chloe doing work-related tasks and helping people on one side juxtaposed with a picture of me getting caught with my arm in the vending machine, sleeping at my desk, and playing solitaire online. Each picture of me gets a louder laugh from the crowd. I didn’t even know where these cameras were. Are they hidden in the ceiling? I knew I shouldn’t have signed that waiver they pushed in my face.

“The ‘Organization and Stabilization’ is what we will bring to our clients to serve as remedy to the ‘Mental Constipation’ our competitors provide. Too many ideas that they only can envision but can’t deliver on,” Hunter says. Everyone in the room nods in agreement. “I would like to thank the two inspirations for the marketing plan, Chloe and Kevin. Without them, it’s only words. But the ideas are instilled in both of them.”

Jake gives me a bullshit pat on the back and puts his arm on my shoulder. “Nice work.”

I brush his arm off. I can feel everyone thinking I’m a piece of shit. I grin and bear it. I’ve grown accustomed to this feeling since I got passed over for Aida. For the rest of the meeting, I sit and contemplate my next move. As we walk out, I grab Jake and pull him to the side, away from the rest of the exiting crowd.

“I’m out. It’s all yours,” I say.

He’s confused. “What?”

“I’m out. It’s all yours,” I repeat.

“Hold on.” Jake looks around to see if anyone heard me. “Out of the closet? And it’s not all mine. I don’t want it.”

“No. The plan.”

He gets what I’m talking about now, and pulls me into the bathroom. He motions me not to talk. Then, he looks in all the stalls to make sure no one else is in here. Of course, Creepy Bathroom Chuck walks in as soon as he sees me go into the bathroom. “Get the fuck outta here,” Jake screams at him. He scurries out of the bathroom. I should try that technique sometime. “What the fuck are you doing?” he says to me.

“What?”

“Talking in front of everybody like that,” he says. “Are you trying to get us both fired?”

“Sorry, thought no one would be paying attention to us.”

“There’s always someone paying attention. Remember that. You can’t go blurting out shit in public.”

“Okay, but the plan. I can’t do it. It’s not working. You need to take over,” I say.

“Just making sure I understand correctly: I’m in charge?” he says. I nod since I’m now paranoid someone is listening to us. “You promise to do whatever I say? No back talk or cold feet about anything, or I’m out. ’Cuz I really don’t have to do this. I’m helping you out,” he says.

He always emphasizes how much he’s helping me, but I do need his help badly. “I promise,” I say, holding my hand up. “I really need this promotion. I feel like I’m starting at the beginning, all over again, after I saw that ad.”

“I know. He thinks you’re a complete asshole. This might be impossible,” he says. My face sinks. “I mean, we can do it. It’s going to take some hard work and commitment on your part.”

“Whatever. I’m all in,” I say.

“Now, we can make some progress. Even though it was funny watching you fail.” Jake laughs and shakes his head at me. “Printer with honey. How’d you come up with that dumb Dennis the Menace shit?”

I shrug. “I thought it’d work.”

“Of course you did. And the party committee, why’d you try to take that over?”

I shrug.

“You threw a birthday party for someone who doesn’t even work here anymore,” he says, laughing. “Maude died four years ago.”

“Well, they should’ve updated the birthday calendar. We still sang the song and had cake,” I say.

“And I was waiting for the day when you come into the office during off hours, wearing a blond wig, and vandalize the place so they think it’s Chloe,” he says.

“I told you that was a joke. I wasn’t really going to do that.” I couldn’t find the right wig.

He gathers himself. “Okay, now don’t leave here with me. Don’t want to look suspicious, especially with you announcing to everyone within earshot that you’re out. People’ll start thinking we’re bathroom buddies or some shit, like they think of you and Chuck.” He braces himself and looks in the mirror to make sure he looks cool and normal. “Wash your hands or something.” Then he walks out.

I do just that, bide time by washing my hands. Then, I crumble up the paper towel I used to dry my hands and shoot a fadeaway basket into the trashcan. It misses horribly and bounces off the wall, onto the floor. I look at it as it rolls on the floor. I figure that was a long enough time. I turn around to walk out of the bathroom, and the short janitor who must’ve walked in while I was washing my hands is now watching me. He looks at my missed basket on the floor. Then, looks at me. Then, looks back at the paper towel. We have an awkward silence. I think he’s Italian and doesn’t speak English too well. It looks as if he had the words to tell me in his head, but couldn’t express them. I motion toward the door and walk out, as I hear him say “Jackassholefuck” under his breath with his thick accent.

I
haven’t seen
Jake all day. I hope he didn’t forget. Time is running out, and I have to get started. My savings is practically depleted. If I don’t get this promotion soon, it’ll be too late. I’m starting to lose it. I’m on my third cup of coffee and it’s not even nine thirty yet. My hands won’t stop shaking. My rapid beverage consumption has me running back and forth to the bathroom since I walked in the door. I feel so awkward waiting for this fucking lav pass over and over again. Then, I have to carry it. No discretion at all. Everyone knows what I’m doing. I can’t just sneak in there and do my thing. And I’m so jittery that I used the first urinal and didn’t notice the Booger Bandit had struck again. He put all kinds of boogers on the wall this morning. I thought I even saw some bloody ones, but I was in mid-stream, so couldn’t stop and switch to another urinal unless I was to pinch off or dribble some piss on the floor. Now, I’m going strictly toilet stalls, even if I have to pee. I can’t not look at the boogers. It’s in my head. Everything is all over the place. I have to shit right now, and I hate shitting at work. Must be all of that coffee.

I walk into the bathroom and no one is in there. But I know it’s only a matter of time before Creepy Bathroom Chuck comes in snooping and trying to take a look at my junk. I place the lav pass on the counter and go into the stall. As soon as I sit, the door opens. Creepy Chuck, that son of a bitch. He’s going to be disappointed I’m not at the urinal. I hear him pace around. I continue my business. I don’t make a sound, no humming a tune, nothing. I’m a quiet pooping ninja. Don’t really care if he hears my shit plop into the toilet. If he does, he shouldn’t be listening.

He gets into the stall right next to me. This is getting out of control. It’s teetering way past perverse stalking. He’s probably one of them fecalpheliacs my mom was telling me about after she saw a special on
Dateline
. Sitting over there and getting off to the sound and smell of my turds. As I try to hurry up by rocking back and forth, I see a white hand reaching under the stall wall, holding a disposable camera. It snaps three quick pictures of me.

“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” I scream into the other stall. Now, I can’t see Creepy Chuck’s feet. His hand is over the wall of the stall, snapping more photos of me on the toilet. I bang on the wall and it startles him. The hand comes back over. If I weren’t in the middling of taking a shit, I’d get up and kick his ass, but I’m immobilized now. I’m like a sitting duck with a turtle head. He steps out of the stall. I think everything is over. I probably scared him off and he left.

The lights now go off in the bathroom. Is Creepy Chuck gonna murder me? He walks over to my stall and kicks the door open and starts taking pictures of me. I’m shielding myself from his camera like I’m Brad Pitt being accosted by paparazzi. All I see is the flash going off. I hear him laughing hysterically. I move my hands away and notice it’s not Creepy Chuck at all. It’s Jake. He steps out of the stall and lets me finish my shit. As I’m washing my hands, I interrogate him.

“What are you doing? I thought you were Chuck.”

“Really? You thought I was him?” he says.

“Who else would it be?” I say as I dry off my hands. “What’s wrong with you?”

He takes the memory card out of the camera. “That’s what I wanted. Put this in his desk in about forty-five minutes.” He hands me the camera.

“What? Why?”

“No questions, remember? Just do it. I gotta go to Walgreens to print these out,” he says, as he races out of the bathroom.

T
hree hours later
, there’s a commotion over by Creepy Bathroom Chuck’s desk. Hunter stands over there with security, and they have plastic cuffs around Chuck’s wrists.

“I told you those are not mine. I didn’t take these pictures,” he shouts.

“Then, how’d they get in your desk,” Hunter says.

Chuck has no answer. Hunter signals security to take him away. They lead him off as he struggles.

“Wait. Hold up. Hold up,” Creepy Chuck says. “Let me speak.” The guard stops. “Since I’m getting fired anyway, can I at least keep the photos?”

“Get him out of here,” Hunter says.

They carry him off. He stops struggling and begins to revel in some type of erotic satisfaction from the guards carrying him off.

Hunter sits down at his desk and begins to go through the drawers, as he did when Monta was fired. He pulls a small red box out of one of the bottom drawers. It’s actually a kid’s He-Man pencil box. At first glance, it looks pretty harmless. I mean, if he weren’t a thirty-five-year-old man. But the contents of the box are anything but harmless. Inside, Hunter finds some cutouts of men and women from JCPenney-type underwear ads from Sunday circulars with fellow employees’ heads pasted on them, a device that appears to be a butt plug, and a tube of K-Y Jelly. He’s disgusted at his findings.

Hunter walks over to me, with an unsettled look on his face. “Hi, I want you to know I saw the pictures.”

“Uh, yeah. I’m sorry?” I say, avoiding eye contact.

“No, no, no. It’s not your fault. When people are sexually assaulted, they can’t help but feel they’ve caused it. But you didn’t. You are the victim,” he says, with his hand on my shoulder. I brush it off, because I really don’t like strange people touching me. He raises both of his arms to signify he wasn’t trying anything. “Sorry, I know you’re pretty sensitive right now. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” I say.

He finally realizes he’s not getting anywhere with me. “Okay, but my door is open. But not in
that
way. And we have counseling available to you here, and also at my church,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it. Really, I do.” The first time Hunter speaks to me since the marketing ad, and it’s to console me from a perverted peeping Tom. Well, I guess it’s better than nothing.

T
he only way
Creepy Chuck’s firing helps me is by putting me more at ease when I take a leak. And I’m pretty sure I won’t have to see boogers on the wall anymore either. Otherwise, I’ve no idea what purpose his framing served. But I gotta do what Jake wants, meaning I had to get up super-early to run errands and pick up all this food. I wish I never read that text message he sent last night with his instructions. I bought pancakes, waffles, French toast, sausage, bacon, turkey bacon, three types of cheeses, different cereals, coffee, tea, orange juice, hot chocolate, pineapple juice, Sunny D (I didn’t even know they still sold that stuff), grape juice, cranberry juice, a fruit tray, biscuits, muffins, bagels, pastries, donuts, and the mandatory Krispy Kremes. And I couldn’t have picked this stuff up last night, because he specified that everything had to be fresh and still hot. But whatever it takes to get this promotion. I did what he said. And I’m learning to control my facial responses when he tells me to do something I really don’t agree with. This task is the perfect example, bringing in a full breakfast feast for people I don’t even like. I take that back. It’s not like I don’t like all of them. I’m sure it’s only about 98 percent I don’t particularly care for.

I can’t deny the brilliance of this plan. The way to get to the hearts of these idiots is through food. And Chloe did betray their hearts once. So this will definitely set me apart from her. I sent out an e-mail before everyone got in, alerting them of the food in the large meeting room, courtesy of me. I brought so much crap in that they might love me forever. The way I was told to play it was that I wanted to get the floor a little something to make up for the Breakfast Day Chloe botched. Then, I sat at my desk as Jake directed me, in order to make the act look selfless, as if I took my own money and bought breakfast while not wishing to take part in this good deed. Have them believe I did it for the right reasons. Now, what would those right reasons be? Not sure, but I’ll do my best to play the shit out of this role.

I sit and work diligently as my co-workers eat up all of the goodies I purchased and lugged into the empty office early in morning. It’s a shame I can’t enjoy the food, but I did stow some French toast sticks in my desk when I was setting everything up. I forgot the syrup, though.

“Did you really do all that in there?” Frank says.

I turn around, as if I didn’t know he was talking to me. “Oh, the breakfast. Yes. All me. Just a little something.”

He gets ready to go back into the meeting room, but looks as if he has something he wants to know before he returns. “You didn’t poison it or anything, right?” he says.

I laugh. “Come on, Frank.” Even though that wouldn’t be a totally bad idea, it’s not something I would do. I’m not a sadistic bastard. “Is that what you think of me?”

“No . . . not at all. Cool. Umm . . . thanks,” he says. Then he races off to get the food before the rest of the savages eat it all.

I follow him to make sure everyone is enjoying all of my hard work, what should be perceived as goodwill. “Hi,” I say to the crowd of stuffed faces and those waiting in line to follow suit. Most simply nod and smile in response. I guess that is enough from those greedy bastards. Then, I notice Ted is in line with a paper plate in hand. He could suck a fucking dick. I can’t believe the nerve he has, going to eat my food after all of the shit he gives me at every chance. Nah, fuck him. I walk over to him and smack the paper plate out of his hand. “I’m okay with everyone eating. Everyone but Ted. You’re a douche bag. And I don’t like you.”

The other employees briefly pause their feeding, as an embarrassed Ted searches for his words. Eventually he says, “Fine. I had a big breakfast at home. And I don’t need this shit. You’re an asshole. Plus, I’ve got work to do.”

I nod my head, knowing I’ve gotten to him. He walks out of the meeting room, and like that, everyone is back to eating. Nobody even cared I yelled at Ted. Most of them don’t like him either, but for the most part it’s because they have food in front of their greedy faces. I could bring their firstborns in as hostages with rifles to their heads, and they wouldn’t even blink an eye for a bacon-and-egg croissant sandwich.

I sit back for a minute and watch as the rest of the employees whip themselves into a frenzy over Danishes and bagels. Then, I slink out of the party room undetected. I probably didn’t have to be so covert, because they wouldn’t even take notice if a spaceship landed in the middle of the room and a three-titted alien jumped out of it. Well, unless the three-titted alien took the last waffle.

I look around the office, and the cubicles are barren. Even Ted isn’t around. He’s probably sobbing in the bathroom because of the way I treated him. Good. He had it coming to him. The breakfast is serving as the perfect diversion for me to act out the second part of Jake’s plan. I go to my desk and pull out the empty black garbage bag I was directed to keep there. Then, I look around and make sure no one is watching me. I go over to the office refrigerator, which is full of brown paper bags, adult lunch boxes, condiments, frozen TV dinners, Tupperware bowls filled with last night’s leftovers, yogurts, and smoothie drinks. I begin dumping the contents of the fridge into the garbage bag, until it resembles the fridge you’d find in the loft of a supermodel.

I discreetly walk outside with my black bag in tow, like Kriss Kringle going dumpster diving. I quickly empty the bag onto the asphalt in the middle of the parking lot. Then, I get into my car and drive over all of the lunchtime goodies. And I reverse back over them for good measure.

With no witnesses, I go back inside to the breakfast party to see if I can grab some food, or at least those syrup packets for my French toast sticks. But like I expected, the pack of hyenas that are my co-workers haven’t left much for me, only a half-eaten bagel with cream cheese on it, a small box of Frosted Flakes, and a nice collection of blueberries that were picked out of the pancakes and promptly placed on a napkin. There is a swallow of orange juice left in the carton, and I want it. But paranoia has me thinking there is a reason this tiny bit was left behind. Backwash, maybe. And the syrup packets are nowhere to be found. With the trough empty, the pigs begin to dissipate from the meeting room with belches, clenched ass cheeks, and heavy breathing. I even receive a few thank-yous, smiles, and even a high-five from one co-worker as they walk out, from co-workers I didn’t think knew I even existed. I’ve never had anyone say “thank you” to me at work. Not that I’ve ever done anything thank-you worthy, but I do find it odd the one time I get congratulated I’m acting under false pretenses. But what do I care? It’s all for a great cause. I don’t even get visibly mad when some lady I don’t know, with a small bit of strawberry jam still in the corner of her mouth, comes up to me and tells me she heard I was friends with Robbie Brown. She asks if I can get his autograph for her and see if he’d be willing to play her son’s bar mitzvah. I shrug it off. I take down her info, but of course I throw out the piece of paper with her name and phone number as soon as I see a trashcan, but at least I keep my cool. I join the rest of the mutts as we go back to our kennels and go on with the rest of our miserable day.

I dive headfirst into my work, until I hear a woman wail. Time flew by from breakfast, and now it’s lunchtime. “We’ve been robbed! It’s gone. My lunch is gone.” She says it loud enough for everyone to hear, but no one rushes to her aid. Her cry catches a few people’s attention, but most continue to do whatever they were doing. It’s funny how people are reluctant to come to a fellow person’s aid, but I guess that’s a sign of the times. Maybe they’re still full from earlier, but for all we know, that woman could be dying from a heart attack or being attacked by a pack of wolverines. Nobody cares.

“All of the lunches are gone. The fridge is empty. We need to call the police,” she continues. Now, this is major disaster territory. All of the lunches gone. Now, everyone quickly assembles in the office kitchen. Well, it’s as quickly as they move. They’re not the most athletic group, but they seem to turn into the Six Million Dollar Men and Bionic Women, pushing themselves to their physical limits when their lunches are involved. I wait awhile before I go over to the kitchen. I don’t want to bring any attention to my total disinterest.